


Dark Side of the Moon

by RayGonz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apple Pie Life, Brotherhood, Demons, Fatherhood, Righteous Man Dean, Saving People Hunting Things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RayGonz/pseuds/RayGonz
Summary: "Whatever you do, you will always end up here. No matter the choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here."Dean-centric exploration of him being the Righteous Man.Altered Universe. Ben is Dean's.





	1. Mary, Did You Know?

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be tweaking Pre-Season 1 but elements that have developed both within and after Season 1 will make their way into this story. With the dates and locations, if the location is showing as somewhere else, then the date is the same and if the date changed, then same location.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this.

**DARK SIDE OF THE MOON**

_Whatever you do, you will always end up here. No matter the choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here._

**Chapter 1: Mary, Did You Know?**

**_Mary did you know that your baby boy is heaven’s perfect lamb_ **

**Kansas City, Missouri**

**January 5, 1999**

**1:20 am**

He's greeted by the soft grainy glow of the old television set, some old black-and-white sitcom, then there's Sammy on the couch, legs sprawled out, thin blanket thrown over his legs, a history textbook with its spine up sitting on his chest, a pile of scrawled notes on the floor, highlighted chaotically. With his heel, he gently pushes the door back to its frame, trying to not disturb the kid.

He plucks one of dad's beers from the fridge before he collapses into the dining chair at this motel, cracking it open as quietly as he can, watching his brother intently.

Part of him doesn't know if he should stick around long enough for dad to get back—knowing that after the night Dad will spend drinking because of earlier is something he shouldn't trifle with. And this irrational part of him wants him to come through that door, asking for the directions, ready to dig roots down somewhere with Sammy in tow.

_"Fall in line, Dean" his dad commands, his teeth cutting into his lips as he spits it out gratingly, nearly snarling it, over the hood of the Impala._

_His eyes are ablaze with defiance._

_"Dean, get in the damn car," and his fist slams down on the metal frame. "You're not walking away from your responsibility to this family. For your mother's sake, for Sammy."_

_He scoffs at the notion, "I've always been there for Sammy," practically chuckling, and then his words turn sharp, "Where were you then?" Something childish, boyish crosses his face. "I never got to be a kid because I had Sammy. He was my responsibility. He's my pain in the ass little brother."_

_There's betrayal in John's eyes—a fervent atrocity. "If you go, stay gone."_

By the time he's practically emptied the bottle, he's quietly humming a song he's known for years, something he does on occasion when he's sitting up at night, watching over Sammy, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Dean," Sam groggily asks out into the room, twisting his face to see his brother sitting there in the somewhat kitchen, somewhat living room. "What are you doing," he groans as he pushes himself up from the couch.

He lifts up his bottle and tips it in Sam's direction.

Dean's jeans and t-shirt are stained with dirt and grass, his knees expressly so from having knelt about in the graveyard before he could identify which tombstone was the right one, rubbing off cobwebs and moss away from the engravings.

"Where's dad?"

Instead of answering, he pulls the rest of the beer sitting at the bottom of the bottle.

Sam nods along, assuming where John Winchester must be. He squints somewhat, trying to assess if his brother has any broken bones or requires stitches. "You good?"

The starkness of his white teeth contrasts against the blackness as the scene playing on the television fades to nothing. The smile dissolves until it's just his lips pressed together in a slant.

The good soldier would stay, wait for dad to come back, take the punishment for his disobedience and fall back in line. God, knows he's lived through those moments before, felt dad's lingering gaze every second in his presence with the distrust, with the doubt, with the disappointment.

_"I told you to not leave this room. I told you not to let him out of your sight," he bitterly spits at the kid._

_Young as he is, the kid stands there, eyes nearly brimming with tears, ashamed and contrite, stoically watching his father cradle his younger brother._

_"I gave you orders, Dean," he grits out, gaze whipping to his oldest son._

"I'm taking you to Bobby's," he lies through his teeth, deciding that he's not going to leave Sam—he's his responsibility, come hell or high water—and he doesn't have the time to explain to the kid about the circumstances and where they're really going. The quick-witted side of him has to suppress a quip about this being a highway to hell once dad finds out that they're both gone.

**Cicero, Indiana**

**10:45 am**

"Bobby moved to Indiana," Sam skeptically asks, glancing at the welcome sign to this town he's never heard of.

Dean's grip on the wheel tightens. "We're making a pit stop," he lies, not knowing if Sam is going to settle into this idea comfortably or if he's going to storm out the door. "She'll treat ya to some home-cooked meals in suburbia," he rambles, trying to soften the surprise his brother is in store for.

"She's a hunter," Sam's brow furrows as he tries to picture some woman around dad's age, baking pies as she's loading salt rounds into her shotgun, white picket fence and demon traps. "Why we've been at Bobby's or Jim's if she's around?"

"She isn't in the business," he tries to casually drop.

Disbelief underlines, "At all?" Sam has to pause, scraping his mind for all the possibilities involved in the family business. "Psychic? Medium? Witch," his nose crinkles at the idea, and then he's decided maybe it's something more normal, "Detective? Agent?"

Dean has to pull over to the emergency lane before he twists accusatorily to his brother. "You think I'd be hanging around with Scully?"

Sam shrugs, dubious. "Don't tell me that last time in California, you weren't hoping for Ponch to pull us over," he mumbles under his breath.

"Shut up."

Sam cracks a smile ever so slightly.

**February 27, 1999**

**10:00 pm**

Light crawls out from the crevice between the door and the floor.

On the other side, Dean's slumped over on the carpet, his spine curving as he hunches over his lap, cross-legged on the ground, sloppy, given the carnage to the six-pack to his side, staring glassily at the frame of the metal crib she assembled weeks ago.

"Dean," she whispers, slowly lowering herself to the ground at his side, her hand moving to his shoulder to help ease the weight pulling her down from her belly.

"Sammy's a good kid," he's mumbling, more to himself than her. "Proud of him."

She sits in silence, listening, her eyes to his cheek because he's still looking at the crib, adrift.

"There’s nothing I wouldn’t put above or before him,” he solemnly swears. He swallows thickly. “Sometimes it terrifies me because I know what I’d do for him.”

There’s something tainted, depraved about the things he’s alluding to and part of her is frightened at the implications because it’s not something she associates with Dean Winchester. Her hand moves to cup his cheek and a wobbly smile graces her face. “Love shouldn’t scare you.”

He should tell her that his father’s love for his mother has fueled a fifteen-year pursuit of the thing that killed her, that love like that should scare anyone—demons, werewolves, vampires, ghouls, all the things that went bump in the night. “I almost lost Sammy when he was a baby,” he trails off, the weight of his eyelids succumbing to the visions of the flames, the licking heat against his flesh, “after that, I was going to do everything to keep him safe. But with this baby, it’s already there in the pit of my stomach.” Errant tears trickle down the slope of his cheek. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to express the nightmares he’s been having of burning from above, the crib and a squalling baby beneath, and as the flames strangle his neck, Sam steps into the door frame, all wide-eyed.

“S’okay,” she murmurs, letting his mind wander and let him have those private thoughts, not needing to intrude.

**Ford City, Nebraska**

**April 20, 2006**

**4:10 pm**

The immoral, the corrupt, he’s one of them, has to be by default as a man of carnal pleasure over God. He rolls through towns, grabbing some set of hips and his lips find the softest crevice along her jawline, grazing over all the arteries in her neck, and he knows if she were some monster, he’d snap her neck, or he’d cleave her skull from her spine. It’s his instinct, assess the thing, look for the easiest kill: bullet, knife, or hand, and do the job. Some nights, the faucet is running red and as much as he scrubs away at his palms, he can’t feel clean again.

God, can’t Sammy let him die in peace, he grumbles, find some motel near Cicero, a pack of beer and convince Lisa to let Benny come over and sit at the goddamn pool as the kid flies into the water, cannon balls and all that. And when it’s all said and done, Bobby, Dad and Sam can down a thing of whiskey until he’s ash, get him a plot back in Lawrence, near Mom.

He’s halfway listening to whatever the con-man is saying to this crowd of fools. “Yeah, and into their wallets,” he mutters to his brother, rolling off his tongue recklessly.

“You think so, young man?”

“Sorry.”

God, the two of them could be on the road back to Indiana, instead of this. Metallica pumping through the speakers, windows cracked down ever so slightly, the smell of the earth trickling in, nothing but miles stretching ahead.

It’s not quite what he pictured about his death. Always figured it’d have been gun in hand, separated from Dad or Sam, some forest in God knows where, that it’d hurt like a bitch for a few and then it’d all be gone. He wasn’t going to Heaven, didn’t think it existed for people like him, and he wasn’t sure about Hell, but he’d saved enough souls to rule that out, and he hadn’t exactly done anything terrible enough to warrant that eternal fire. It had to be some kind of oblivion for him, nothingness.

“No, no. Don’t be. Just watch what you say around a blind man, we’ve got real sharp ears.” He pauses. “What’s your name, son?”

“Dean.”

“Dean,” the faith healer repeats. Roy Le Grange hears the faintest whisper, Righteous Man, and there’s a tangled mess of all the things this Dean will be.


	2. Brother

**DARK SIDE OF THE MOON**

**Chapter 2: Brother**

_**Ramblers in the wilderness, we can't find what we need** _

_**We get a little restless from the searching** _

_**Get a little worn down in between** _

_**Like a bull chasing the matador is the man left to his own schemes** _

_**Everybody needs someone beside 'em shining like a lighthouse from the sea** _

**Cicero, Indiana**

**October 20, 2001**

**1:01 pm**

Brochure after brochure, a sea of pamphlets scattered across the kitchen counter, brick façades and archways, fields of grass and trees, all sunshine and smiles, students lounging about, sprawled over campus after campus.

His fingertips drag over the brochures, sifting through them, name after name of university: Yale, Stanford, Harvard, Pennsylvania, Austin, Chicago, Berkeley… Name after name, campus after campus, all blurring together into some generic future of his little brother with a black graduation cap and gown, diploma in hand, and something swells in his chest, ballooning in his heart.

He's spent the last three years trying to juggle this all out: part-time mechanic and full-time electrical contractor, done the late-night studying for his GED before that, rocking on his heels as he burps his infant son in the waning morning hours, all while Lis had been doing night school and working from home as a yoga instructor. Then throw in a teenage boy that's learning to drive and eating his way through a house with a toddler that's waddling everywhere and finding his way into toolboxes.

But it's all settled somewhat, lulled to manageable for him, only working as an electrical contractor and keeping the mechanic for the days off when he wants to attend to Baby, and the little tyke is more self-sufficient than before, but by no means, less demanding than before, and the teenager is almost out of the house.

Hell, Sammy shot up like a weed and that little brother looking up had been literal until this past summer when one morning, he'd had the realization that his brother was eye-to-eye with him, and now he's shot over his head. Still all lanky limbs and that mop of hair. And during the school week, he's got the keys to the Impala because the construction site isn't the place for her and she's best out on the road, Winchester behind her wheel.

And then there's Ben, or Benny as he's more often referred to as, trailing after him wherever he goes, looking like his miniature, fine blond hair that's darkening every day, and that's got a knack for all his little habits from the way he smiles to the way he sleeps. First steps had been towards him, wobbly and shaky until he reached his arms, and much to his rumble of a laughter, the first word had been  _Sammy_. The kid had gone from about the size of a football to practically up to his knees, all so fast.

"You should take him for Thanksgiving to go see a couple of schools," she murmurs, interrupting his thoughts.

He lifts up his head to see her, leaning against the counter beside him, flicking through the different brochures, pausing at some of the campuses.

"Go visit UPenn," she smiles softly as she's saying this, holding up the brochure from him to see. "Just you and Sam."

It's tempting—long stretch of highways, gas station snacks, diner food, messing with Sam as he sleeps on the road, motel pools—but he's got so many responsibilities here.

"I'll hold down the fort here," she supplies, pushing him to take the trip.

**9:00 pm**

The credits of some 1960s film are scrolling across the screen, the glow of the television the soft illumination to the living room, bathing the faces of all four in this family.

With her neck bent uncomfortably against her shoulder, he's less inclined to try to maneuver her into bed with the weight of their son draped over her, legs and arms wrapped around her as he lays across her stomach, his little face pressed into the curve of her neck, puffing out little breaths as he sleeps. Somewhere in between a shoot-out, she must have fallen asleep with the warmth of their son against her, exhausted from a day of chasing after the tyke.

Sammy's got his long legs propped up on the coffee table, stretching out and sinking deep into the couch beside him, a bit of a dopey grin on his face. "You know they die at the end," he off-handedly announces, glancing from the corner of his eye to his older brother.

"Freeze-frame, they freeze-framed," Dean counters insistently, "They live forever." His own smile breaking out across his face.

And it's strange to think, but had circumstances been different, they might have been watching this same film on some grainy TV set, some seedy motel on the outskirts of a forgotten town, two bowls of Spaghetti-O's in their laps, shotgun at Dean's side as dad warned him. As they glance around them, still somewhat chuckling, they're both pinching themselves to make sure that this is real—that they're in a home, bellies full from some home-made chili. For Sam, he's sure that even if he wasn't here, he'd still be looking into schools, but it'd all be discreet and covert, after-school library sessions on the computer, scrolling through their websites, feeling the betrayal of what he's about to do when he actually commits to a school, without Dean. And for Dean, it'd be hunt after hunt, some nights accompanying the old man, shotgun in hand, keeping Sammy safe, living like a straggler, never imagining more than motels and bars and hunting, despite that ache for it, that something more.

"You got time for one more tonight?"

His hand ruffles the mop of head. "Yeah, Sammy."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

**Columbus, Ohio**

**November 21, 2001**

**6:20 pm**

They're a little stuck in traffic, much to Sam's agony, with the way that Dean is moving along, his shoulders swaying as he sings along to Bob Seger, his hands drumming on the wheel to somewhat match the music. Sam's leaning as far as he can from Dean's over-animated production, nose crinkling as he laughs, unfortunately encouraging him, but after the fifth performance he's done, it's beyond the attempt to sit there in silence and try to protest, especially as his brother escalated the antics.

When the song comes to an end, instead of carrying on the torch and performing along with whatever comes on next, he twists the knob, lowering the volume to a dull reminder that there's something playing. "What are things we're looking for at these schools," he asks, "Library," he starts to list, extending his thumb, "Fraternities and sororities," he tacks on, index and middle fingers unfolding from his closed fist.

His shoulders shake with humor at his brother's suggestion. "Yes to the library," he affirms, moving his gaze to meet his older brother's, "Poke around some of the lecture halls," and there's something a little roguish in that suggestion because lock-picking may be necessary.

"Alright, Urkel," Dean brushes off with a smile.

"Unlike you, Hefner," Sam teases, "I'm not interested in that."

"Hey, hey," he protests, "I've been with Lis for some time now."

"Bless her soul," Sam teases.

"I'm just saying you ought to have the whole experience of college," and he steers the conversation away from her.

"I promise for your sake that I'll go to some toga party," Sam breathes out, right hand raised.

The things he doesn't promise his brother are that he's going to make him proud, so that one day he won't ever joke that the only thing he's got is his GED, knowing that the only reason he's come this far is because Dean didn't get this opportunity, not from lack of ability, but a responsibility to raise his pain in the ass little brother. 

"Are we doing a bucket of fried chicken for Thanksgiving," Sam asks, after the two settled into silence, letting the guitar seep in between them.

Dean's hands peel off the wheel, shifting about. "Lis did pack some leftovers from earlier," he admits, though he'd been planning on reviving the tradition, going back to their roots for the actual day instead of the little impromptu lunch they'd had earlier. "Just some of the turkey for sandwiches maybe."

"I could do some drumsticks," Sam murmurs, glancing at his brother, though he's enjoyed a handful of regular Thanksgivings with turkey and all the goods, he's always somewhat missed the unconventional bucket of fried chicken split between them, and for all their Christmas adventures with some attempt at creating a tree through the years, branches they've tied together or pine-scented car-fresheners hanging off bent wires, he's missed the makeshift-ness of the holidays they had as kids.

**Stanford, California**

**December 20, 2001**

**1:00 pm**

The two of them are sitting in the grass, legs stretched out before them, leaning back on their hands.

The youngest is envisioning a future—backpack slung over his shoulder, buried in textbooks, laughing from the delirium of cramming—all of his next four years.

The oldest is seeing that moment when the past collides with the future somewhere in the present—the little mop head of a brother with a missing front tooth and a bloody mess curled into his palm to show him, a lanky teen in a burgundy cap and gown, the gold sticker his kid brother is beaming at after having peeled it off the first test he's gotten back—all  _look, Dean, look._ There's that moment where he feels as it's all moving too fast, and without him, leaving him behind, where Sammy's first steps had been towards him, now he was watching the first steps away from him.

"We can do Christmas out here," Sam's rambling, all of the excitement buzzing, "San Francisco isn't that far. Alcatraz, Ghirardelli and Pier 39. There's no way that Ben won't be over the moon."

For Sam, the suggestion is natural, easy as breathing, as much as he's imagined life at this campus already, he's grounded it with Thanksgiving back in Indiana, turkey that Lisa's spent the day cooking and two fingers of some scotch that Dean's offered him at the table, and Dean lugging boxes into the dorm on moving day. Dean is the one he calls that first night when he gets back a paper that didn't score as well as he would have liked, or had even been prepared to receive, staying on the phone with him, encouraging him, like a lighthouse from the sea. For Sam, there is no severance of him and Dean with this next step, it's still them against the world.

**Burnet, Texas**

**May 1, 2006**

**11:17 pm**

The motel door swings open to a haggard, languid Dean Winchester, the knees of his jeans shredded and matted in mud and blood, t-shirt stained with sweat and caked in blood, no sign of the flannel he had been wearing over that, his boots dragging over the wood, seemingly lost and defeated. Hoarsely, "Sammy?"

And there, bare foot in a pair of jeans and a fading, peeling Stanford sweatshirt is Sam, the pillows dented from where Sam had presumably fallen asleep while reading up on lore. He's scratching the back of his head, still reeling from that sense of time loss, but immediately stops when he sees all the blood, and insistently, he demands, "Dean?"

He mumbles something inaudible to himself.

"Dean, shit, are you bleeding?"

With Sam standing before him, trying to lead him to slump into a chair, he grabs the back of his brother's neck and knocks their foreheads against another. "No, I'm good. S'okay, Sammy." He moves his chin to rest against his brother's shoulder, squeezing his pain in the ass little brother. "I took care of it."


	3. When the Levee Breaks

**DARK SIDE OF THE MOON**

**Chapter 3: When the Levee Breaks**

**_If it keeps on rainin’ levee’s goin’ to break_ **

**_When the levee breaks I’ll have no place to stay_ **

**Cicero, Indiana**

**October 20, 2005**

**9:00 pm**

 

There’s no Eddie Vedder or Dave Grohl trickling out from the third bedroom. There’s an abandoned chair at the dining table, no more scattered paperbacks about the house, and the Impala sits under a tarp in the garage, neglected. Since Sam left, it’s all a little emptier.

 

But true enough, the two brothers had taken that last hurrah road trip to California, the Impala loaded with boxes to unpack at the dorm for Sammy, most of which Dean had carried up as Sam started unloading the stuff, filling up drawers and making his bed.

 

The kid’s been put down to sleep, bathed and tucked away for the night.

 

He’s leaning back against the headboard of the bed, a glass of whiskey at his bedside table, and there’s a little KISS playing softly enough to not disturb their son down the hall.

 

Lis has got all that soft dewy brown hair cascading down, swaying her hips, her fingers playing with the satin panty line.

 

**11:45 pm**

 

He stretches like a cat for his phone, buzzing on the bedside table, and he’s tempted to chuck the thing against the wall because he’s far too satiated to be bothered with whoever’s calling at this damn hour. He pauses, knowing that at this hour, the only person who might have been calling would be Sam or Bobby.

 

It shouldn’t be Sam; they spoke just last night.

 

Slightly panicked, “Bobby?” He twists away from the warmth of Lisa, shifting onto his side, his back to her.

 

 “Dean.”

 

His stomach drops at the sound of the voice—Dad.

 

“How’d you—” _get this number,_ he wants to finish but doesn’t, still so flabbergasted. 

 

“You need to get Sam back to Indiana.”

 

His tongue is on the roof of his mouth, stuck.

 

“Fast as you can, Dean. He’s not safe at Stanford.”

 

He wants to object, wants to demand answers, but he nods along anyways.  

 

“You understand me, Dean?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He pulls the phone away and sees that the call has been ended, no explanation, just an order.

 

“Dean,” she asks, all soft and worried, as he rolls off the bed, still holding his phone tightly in his hand.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles as he pulls on a pair of sweats before he ambles out of the bedroom, dazed and confused.

 

 He slumps into the chair at the dining table, dragging the bottle of whiskey with him, and proceeds to down some of it, disregarding a glass.

 

_Sam should be fine,_ he reminds himself over and over. All the nights spent with guns, breaking them down and assembling them together again, and shooting at empty beer cans in the day has to account for something. Sam knows to salt the windows and doors, knows to keep a demon trap under the rug, knows how to load and rack a shotgun, knows to slice off a vampire’s head, knows about silver, knows all that he should about the things that go bump in the night.

 

He calls the home number he’s got.

 

“Hello?” It’s Jess, happily distracted.

 

“Hey, Cherry Bomb.” 

 

She breathes out a laugh. “I’d hand you over to Sam if we hadn’t already missed our reservation and if we had anything in the fridge.”

 

“Is it Dean?” Slightly muffled, but clear as a bell.

 

“Sam, you don’t even have pants on,” Jess mumbled, nearly drowned out by a commotion and shuffling.

 

“Just throw me a pair,” Sam mutters to her. “Hey, Dean,” Sam supplies, probably through a smile, and then he’s muttering, “I was going to call you earlier. Are you and Lis going to be home tomorrow? I’ve got something to tell you both.”

 

“She’s got a class in the morning. Call sometime around lunch.” He smiles, relieved that all is well there.

 

“Throw ‘em, Jess.”

 

He laughs, picturing Sam cradling the phone against his shoulder, hopping from one leg to another as he shoves his legs through.

 

“Wait, Jess, where’s my shoe?”

 

All his worry dissolves away into a fit of laughter. “Be safe, you two.”

 

The line disconnects through Sam’s fumbling.

 

All is well—it’s the same monotony of college.

 

**October 29, 2005**

**7:00 am**

 

Despite dad’s disruption, all of life has resumed as if it hadn’t happened, some fluke in the middle of the night. Sam’s still in the full swing of school and he’s scored a 174 on his LSAT, considering where he’s going next, something he’s figuring out with Jess because she’s opting for a Master’s and they’re hoping to move in together wherever that may be. Ben is still in his hair, following after him, wanting to know all the basics under the hood of the Impala, and wanting to know all the lyrics to Led Zeppelin’s Mothership. He still finds his arms full every night, Lis tucked into one side and Ben on the other, some Spaghetti Western playing.

 

A thousand times in the middle of the night, he’s stared at the number dad called from and has nearly dialed it again. But he never makes the call because if he did, it’d shatter everything.

 

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Lis murmurs, her hand rubbing his chest as she crawls over her side of the bed.

 

“Morning,” he mumbles, throat thick with sleep.

 

“Don’t think that thing,” and she gestures to the dream catcher over their bed, “is working. You kept tossing and turning last night.” Her features soften into worry because it’s been years since he’s last been plagued by nightmares.

 

He leans forward, pressing his lips into the curve of her mouth.

 

She pulls away gently after she kisses him softly. She won’t press him for details about the dreams, but she’s willing to listen to whatever they may be. She kisses the corner of his mouth, trying to tell him that it’s okay to let her in.

 

He’s got this lazy smile when she pulls away, backpedaling away from him.

 

“C’mon, we’ve got Guns N’ Roses to dance to as we make breakfast for Benny.”

 

“I’ll be down there in a second,” and he pushes his shoulders back, stretching, “You going to wake him up?”

 

“Already did.”

 

She’s out the door as he reaches for his phone.

 

One new voicemail.

 

**Stanford, California**

**October 31, 2005**

**10:30 pm**

 

He flips his phone open, checking to see if there’s any message or missed call. Nothing. Still just the voicemail from Dad about the thing that killed mom possibly and some EVP. He pockets it before he slinks out of the car, carefully shutting the door in the parking lot of the apartment complex.

 

He’s pinned to the ground faster than he can realize after he slips into the apartment through the window, even though he knows they keep a spare key under a potted plant by the front door.

 

“Whoa, easy tiger.”

 

“Dean?”

 

He laughs.

 

“You scared the crap out of me!”

 

“That’s cause you’re out of practice.” He gets slammed back to the ground before he’s helped up to his feet. “Or not,” he grumbles. “Get off of me,” he demands, irritated.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

“Well, I was looking for a beer.”

 

“You could’ve called,” Sam mumbles. “I thought I was going to you for Thanksgiving.”

 

He shrugs dismissively.

 

The light turns on and both squint in the brightness.

 

“Sam?” A second of pause. “Dean?”

 

“Sorry, Cherry Bomb,” he mumbles out, offering a kind smile to the girl, and he’s apologizing for more than she thinks he is. “I just needed to speak to him about something.”

 

“It’s fine,” she acquiesces, concerned, eyes flicking to her boyfriend. “I’ll—”

 

“You can stay,” Sam pleads, assuming that whatever the issue is, it might be about Lisa and she’ll be far more help than anything he could say.

 

“Dad called me,” and he pauses, almost cringing because he hasn’t told Sam that dad called him a few days ago either, “Think he’s in trouble. He hasn’t been home in a few days.”

 

Sam frowns, trying to absorb what he’s being told.

 

“Bobby gave him my number a few days ago. He called me right away.” He pauses, knowing that Sam’s talked very little about their childhood to his girlfriend. “Think he wanted to make amends about the way we grew up.”

 

“You didn’t talk to him?”

 

“No,” he lies. “Bobby said Dad’s on a hunting trip and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

 

“Jess, could you,” and he gestures somewhat towards the bedroom. “I-uh. I need to talk to Dean outside.”

 

They’re pounding down the stairs by the time Sam’s able to form any thought about the situation.

 

“What do you mean Dad called you?”

 

“He’s hunting the thing that killed mom.”  

 

Sam halts.

 

“He was on another case when he crossed the SOB’s trail.”

 

“No, it can’t be that. It’s gotta be like the poltergeist in Amherst or the Devil’s Gates in Clifton.”

 

“Sam, Bobby wouldn’t have given him my number if it wasn’t something big like this. For God’s sake, Bobby’s the one that stood Dad toe-to-toe on his porch when he came hollering about us and the empty motel room to let us have the apple pie life.”

 

“Dean, I can’t go.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“This is my life now. I’m not hunting.”

 

“It’s the thing that killed mom.”

 

“I can’t just leave. I have class on Monday.” He hesitates. “You think Mom would have wanted this for us?”

 

“Dad’s in real trouble right now. I can’t stand around and not do anything to save him.”

 

Sam swallows thickly.

 

“I can’t do this alone.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want to find Dad alone.”

 

Sam isn’t sure if Dean already suspects that Dad’s dead or just missing like he always is.

 

**Jericho, California**

**November 1, 2005**

**9:45 pm**

Flicking through page after page of Dad’s journal, brow furrowed, Sam is ruminating about the thing that’s still out there, Dad hot on its heels, thick lines of salt in his shadow, shotgun in hand, and an arsenal at his fingertips. Whatever the hell it is, it’s got Dad spooked and it isn’t sitting well with Sam.

 

Dean whips the Impala out of the parking space.

 

Sam glances towards his brother, the back of his neck prickling with unease at how boyish is brother is since they’ve gotten to Jericho, how easily he fell into the boots of a hunter again after all this time, but above all, how devil-may-care he is about resuming the lifestyle as if those years in Indiana had been an alternate reality.

 

It’s the same Dean Winchester that was a pace behind Dad, shotgun in hand, following along, and it scares Sam that Dean would be so willing to follow after Dad, all the way to the gates of hell.

 

“Take the 80 East,” Sam instructs.

 

Dean meets his brother’s gaze, questioning him because Stanford is west.

 

“We got work to do.”

 

**Grand Junction, Colorado**

**November 10, 2005**

**6:00 pm**

His son rambles on and on about losing his tooth, probably darting his tongue in the space as excited as he is, and about his teacher Miss Newell, about some birthday party he went to, some sleepover, and a million other innocuous things.

 

“Yeah, buddy,” he’s murmuring, trying to absorb all the things he’s missing, cradling his cell phone against his shoulder as he’s waiting at the local diner for some burgers. “Wish I was there.” He has to swallow the lump in his throat from the guilt of having chosen to leave him behind. “But I’ve got Sammy,” and through the years, there have been attempts to use _Uncle Sammy,_ but it’s never quite stuck, “and you got Mommy.”

 

“You can’t go to the chocolate factory without me,” Ben is demanding, “Sammy’s supposed to take me there before we go to a Giants game.”

 

“We won’t,” he promises, “But you know that we’re in Colorado, not California. We’re helping,” and he cringes slightly, “Bobby’s friend with something.”

 

Again, it’s something that he and Lis had tried to address when Ben was younger with old pictures of John Winchester and hadn’t stuck then because it was all a sore wound for Dean and further attempts to reiterate _Grandpa_ disappeared. Then, there’s Bobby, who both had tried to get Ben to call that because he’d been there for the holidays over the years, but he’s heard the name more often than the label.

 

“Oh,” the kid breathes out, “Is he hurt?”

 

The motel room in Jericho flashes to mind and his stomach twists in fear. “Yeah, Benny. He needs me and Sammy badly.”

 

“Like he has to go to the hospital?”

 

He hums in agreement.

 

“He’ll get better,” his son swears.

 

He roughly smears the errant tear away. “Benny,” he croaks out, trailing off because his throat is constricting.

 

“Yeah, Daddy?”

 

“I’m going to try to get him better as fast as I can. Then, we all can go somewhere. How about Hershey Park? Is all that chocolate okay with you, Charlie?”

 

His son bursts into giggles. “My name’s Benny,” still wheezing with laughter.

 

“Not when you have your own chocolate factory,” he whispers, smiling, basking in the sound of his son’s laugh.

 

“Mommy wants to talk to you,” his son breathes out harshly.

 

“Okay, buddy. Love you.”

 

“Love you.”

 

“Dean?”

 

“Lis,” he faintly greets. He already knows the questions she’s got. “We’ve just made it to Colorado. We’re having a little trouble with Dad about going to a facility. I don’t know how much longer this is going to be.”

 

He’s still stretching the lie about a road trip to take Dad to some rehab facility, somewhere close to Bobby’s place, and it’s all getting thinner day-by-day.

 

“Dean, how come there’s a letter from Stanford about Sam taking the rest of the semester off?”

 

“He’s taking this thing with Dad pretty hard,” and he closes his eyes, “We might have to stay near the facility to help him complete the program.”

 

“If you need to be there,” she whispers understandingly, but she bites her lip, gnawing. “Dean, how are we going to keep paying for the house if it’s just me?”

 

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be sending you money,” he swears, knowing he’s going to have to ramp up the credit card fraud and the hustling.

 

“Okay,” she breathes out, but both know it’s hesitant.

 

 There’s no _I love you, love you too._ There’s no _see you at home_ or _come home soon._


	4. Enter Sandman

**DARK SIDE OF THE MOON**

**Chapter 4: Enter Sandman**

**_Somethings wrong, shut the light_ **

**_Heavy thoughts tonight_ **

**_And they aren’t of Snow White_ **

**_Dreams of war, dreams of liars_ **

**_Dreams of dragon’s fire_ **

**_And of things that will bite_ **

**_Sleep with one eye open_ **

****

**Burnet, Texas**

**April 29, 2006**

**4:00 am**

Since they’ve left Nebraska, the heaviness of the Reaper hasn’t left him, instead, it’s clinging to every inhale and exhale. It’s keeping him up most nights, lurking there and lingering in the shadows of his mind.

 

After the whole ordeal with Roy, Sam must have been expecting the two of them to head back to Indiana for a while, let things fester with dad because they weren’t any closer to him, and the near-death should have been some awakening thing to reconnect with his kid. He’s not inclined to bring home the darkness though. Then, there are the whole circumstances with Lis—when he’d first been in the hospital and they’re telling him he’s dying, he’d called her.

 

_“Dean,” her voice is level, civil._

_There are no more charades about the facility he was supposed to take his dad to or that he’s ever coming home again. That stopped months back, sometime in January when he came home one weekend to see Ben and found all his stuff boxed in the garage, waiting for him._

_He knows she’s got her opinions about what he must be doing on the road, instead of at home for his son. He tries to restrict it as much as he can, tries to obscure it all—no beers when he’s with Ben and wipes down Baby so there isn’t that heady scent in the backseat or the funk of living out of a car._

_“Benny okay?” He grits his teeth because he’s stalling from telling her._

_“He’s good. You missed the parent-teacher conference.” She pauses, probably trying to compose herself because she isn’t one for yelling. “She said he was doing amazing. He’s reading at a second-grade level.”_

_He beams at that._

_“He wants to play baseball this year,” she sighs, pained, “He wants you to be one of the coaches.”_

_“Lis,” he cuts her off because he can’t hear about all the things his son is interested in._

_“Dean, I need you to stay gone,” she interrupts him, her voice sharp and demanding, “I can’t have Ben around all the shit you bring with you.”_

He agreed then, promised he wouldn’t come around until he had his shit figured out and he apologized for being a fuck-up. Sam doesn’t know and it’s best that way to not know that Lis thinks he’s fallen down a rabbit hole when he left Indiana to go after an alcoholic dad and that now he’s just like him.

 

She’s right—he’s got a problem.

 

He’s worked through a fifth of whiskey already.

 

But it’s what dad did.

 

They’d been driving all day yesterday when they finally rolled into town after dinner, somehow he managed to stay upright to get a room and before his head ever hit the pillow, he was gone, so exhausted. His nightmares had been plagued with a sweltering, blistering heat and his throat had gone raw, screaming for his brother. And he’d woken up just an hour earlier, immediately reaching for the whiskey.

 

He’s trying to not dwell on his nightmares for the past week and a half. There’s too much agony in them to not drown there from a rusted toothed knife tearing into the flesh at his ribs again and again to the seizing pain of something splintered, bone most likely.

 

**12:00 pm**

His lip rests against the lip of the bottle as he fills his mouth, trying to wash away that gnawing feeling in his stomach that something isn’t right about this case.

 

Sam’s flicking through the pages of dad’s journal, monster after monster, concentrating intently and ignoring the salad he’s gotten halfway through. Sam’s a good hunter, knows the lore, willing to dig down and learn as much as he can about the thing before they put it down.

 

Doubt creeps into his bones because this isn’t something they’re used to. He has this prickly feeling that it’s demonic.

 

The bottom of his glass bottle clinks against the table as he sets it back down. “I’m going to give Lis a call,” he lies, slipping away as his brother nods in agreement.

 

Once he’s outside the bar, he leans against the brick façade, and he’s dialing the number that’s been burning a hole in his pocket for months. It skips to voicemail without really ringing and his gut twists at that. “Dad,” he shakily whispers, “I-uh. There’s something big out here. I don’t know if it’s related to Mom but it’s sinister.”

 

**April 30, 2006**

**9:00 am**

Flat on his belly, one arm outstretched and flung over the side of the bed, Dean Winchester is lost to the world. He managed to kick off his jeans earlier in the morning when he stumbled back in from some bar and his boots are scattered across the floor, last night there had been no dark blotches at his neck from some seedy hook-up in the backseat.

 

Sam pried once a few months back about Lis and him and he’d been told to never mention her again. He hasn’t dared to teeter towards anything related to Ben since then either even if he’s got a thousand questions about why their visits to Indiana have dwindled away to nothing since the beginning of April. By now, they should have been making their way back to Indiana for a long weekend.

 

He glances down to his phone, knowing that whatever happened, it’s not something he would talk about either, especially since Jess stopped calling him a month ago and she stopped writing emails three weeks ago.

 

He downs the scalding coffee, distracting himself before he resumes the combing through old records, so many death certificates with bloody, gruesome endings.

 

**May 1, 2006**

**10:00 pm**

Limp like a rag doll, Dean hauls the weight of his brother into the bathroom, the back of his brother’s head hitting roughly against the lip of the tub, his limbs bending awkwardly to fit into the basin.

 

Dean’s flannel is sticky with blood as he kneels at the tub, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. “I got you,” he’s muttering again and again.

 

The tip of the knife slices through the cotton fabric of Sam’s shirt and Dean peels away the tatters to get to the warm skin.

 

At his sternum, just beneath his heart, there’s a huge gaping hole, blood caking in dark brown hues and still leaking steadily with an angry crimson.

 

“S’okay,” he’s mumbling, nearly falling into the tub with his brother as he’s grabbing the scratchy towel to wipe away the blood away from Sam’s stomach and chest, smear the copper stains around his brother’s mouth. “I’m going to fix this.”

 

**11:30 pm**

“You good?”

 

“Dean, are you okay?”

 

He laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, I’m good. You’re the one that took the hit to the head earlier tonight. You were pretty out of it. We got back and you weren’t even going to change out of your shit before you hit the sack.”

 

“I don’t remember shit,” Sam mutters, his hand moving to the back of his head to check for any bumps, but there’s nothing there. “We finished the job?”

 

“Smoked the damn Jeffrey Starship,” Dean affirms.

 

Sam frowns.

 

“Some kind of werepire,” Dean explains, chuckling at his brother’s confusion. “I did most of the legwork after you took the hit to the head.”

 

“Huh,” Sam mutters, intrigued by the idea of some mismatched monster.

 

“Well, I’m going to hit the head, Sleeping Beauty,” he salutes teasingly before he stands, heading towards the bathroom, needing to strip out of the t-shirt and jeans he’s got.

 

As the bathroom shuts, Sam glances around the room, there’s nothing out of place—their duffle bags are still sitting where they were, the first aid kit is still on the dresser, and there’s still a pizza box from earlier in the night. 

 

**Salvation, Iowa**

**July 30, 2006**

**1:21 pm**

With his knees banging against the table, he’s suddenly fifteen again with a kid Sammy, sitting on one side of the booth of some diner with dad. It’s one of those days where he’s not worried about money since it’s a new card and he’s indulging the boys to pick out whatever they desire and at his insistence, they’ve each got a slice of pie and a scoop of ice cream.

 

For all intents and purposes, Dean Winchester hardly resembles the same fifteen-year-old he feels like. He’s filling out the booth subconsciously, so much so that he drapes his arm against the back of the bench, leaning back, and where he’d bang his knees against the table before from being slightly unaccustomed and awkward to his long limbs, now it’s from having little room for his size. He’s not casting glances to his brother, wary that something will erupt between him and dad from some little thing. Nor is he slightly concerned about ordering something cheaper than Sammy, just so that later, they can stretch the money dad’s left a little more. But his nervous energy has skyrocketed in his chest as if he was that kid again.

 

His gut churns violently, expecting dad to be able to smell it and call him out just he had all those years ago over the hood of the Impala after he’d gotten a message from Lisa about a doctor’s appointment, knowing that something was amiss.

 

Sam’s painfully oblivious to his unease.

 

“Dean,” it’s assertive and stoic, “tell me about that boy of yours.”

 

The floor falls out from beneath him as he nearly laughs out loud in delirium, in relief.

 

He’d been expecting his dad to wring his neck for what he’d done, not even just for taking Sammy away all those years ago.

 

His throat tightens before he can even say his son’s name. “Benny,” he grimaces somewhat at the way his voice strains, and then he’s hesitating because where he’s supposed to start—with his guilt or his love. _I’d sell my soul for the kid,_ he wants to joke.

 

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

**December 31, 2006**

**3:00 pm**

Somewhere out in the yard, Sam’s running around with Benny, while Lisa is avoiding him because they’re still tiptoeing around the last year, somewhere in town, an excuse to go grocery shopping.

 

Early on, back in June, when he’d made that first trip back home, after she’d let Sam and him through the door, when it's just been them again in the bedroom, he left her in with promises he’d never keep, he’d made the superficial vow that he’d go to AA meetings at the local church, still trying to keep it all secret. He’d been delegated to the couch for weeks with her little spiel that she couldn’t trust him again but she was willing to learn to again.

 

The conjured reality he’d created dissolved in November when she’d spent more nights, carding her fingers through his hair as he tossed on the couch, trapped in some nightmare, and she’d finally stumbled on dad’s journal after he’d passed out with it on his chest, open to an entry about demons. Initially, she thought he needed psychiatric help until Sam had crept into the room, explaining it all, making the call to Bobby to help fill in the blanks. She’s still wrapping her head around it all, especially since the last time he came back home after a hunt over the weekend, he’d been covered in Shifter gunk.

 

Sam hasn’t mentioned Stanford in months, not since he deferred enrollment. He isn’t pushing to talk about it, even if he’s got a million questions about why his brother isn’t anxious to go back. Hell, the one time he mentioned Jess again, he’d been asked to never bring it up again because she had moved on.

 

 It’s selfish of him, but part of him is glad that his brother is back at his side.

 

He’s nursing a beer as he’s leaning against the counter in Bobby’s kitchen, quietly ruminating.

 

“What the hell did you do,” it’s harsh and grief-stricken, spit flying from Bobby’s mouth as he’s standing there, confronting him.

 

He doesn’t say anything.

 

Bobby’s fists grapple with the collar of his t-shirt as he wrestles him close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. “What did you do, Dean?”

 

“You’re going to have be more specific than that.”

 

“I could throttle you.”

 

_Oh, shit._


	5. Don't Cry

**DARK SIDE OF THE MOON**

**Chapter 5: Don’t Cry**

**_Talk to me softly_ **

**_There’s something in your eyes_ **

**_Don’t hang your head in sorrow_ **

**_And please don’t cry_ **

****

**Cicero, Indiana**

**January 12, 2007**

**5:00 am**

The charade of AA meetings gone, he’s back to beers at dinner and scotch before bed, no longer slinking off to some bar at the outskirts of town to drown away his shit. Tonight’s been no different than any other night as he’s slumped heavily into the dining chair, a bottle of whiskey sitting there in front of him.

 

It’s scaring her to hear him late at night, looking for whatever he’s looking for at the bottom of the bottle, especially because it’s come back with a vengeance since they’ve come back from Bobby’s. She’s known that he’s always had some dependency on it, ever since he came toting along Sam all those years ago, but it's never been this ugly.

 

“Dean—”

 

He lifts his head sluggishly, fighting against the weight, and his eyes seek out the softest whisper of his name, stained with tears that he’s been crying for hours.

 

At that moment, she’s not the girl he remembers meeting all those years ago. There’s no Guns N’ Roses t-shirt and tight jeans to hug her hips sinfully. Instead, she’s an old fading t-shirt and nothing but her legs, tucking her hands beneath her armpits as if she’s freezing.

 

His brow crumples but he doesn’t say anything.

 

Her feet pad gently towards him and she hovers for a moment’s pause, unsure.

 

“Sorry,” he breathes out, so heartbreakingly and so splintered it nearly shatters her apart. His hand moves to cup her cheek, running his thumb over her cheek, soothingly.

 

He’s apologizing for a thousand things from beginning until now—leaving her all those months ago, letting her be pregnant alone, expecting her to swallow all his shit all those years ago when he came here, drinking too much, loving her too little, not thanking her enough, lying to her—and the heaviest of them all, something he doesn’t want to admit to having done because he hadn’t considered the way she might feel about him. _She loves you more than you ever considered._

 

Her fingers dance over his other hand as she rolls her eyes up to try to stop the tears.

 

“You deserve better,” he murmurs.

 

She flinches ever so slightly because she’s heard it a thousand times from his drunken mouth.

 

“I can’t promise you the white picket fence life. You should have someone that will marry you, make more babies,” and he swallows thickly, “someone that won’t break your heart.”

 

“Dean, I was wrong. Benny needs you, regardless—”

 

“Lis, I’m not leaving him. I still want to be there. I’m going to be there,” he vows. “But he needs to see his mother loved the way she deserves to be loved.”

 

She stares at him, scouring his eyes for something unseen.

 

He shifts his eyes ever so slightly to her ear because her stare feels like she’s peeling off his flesh with some rusty blade. “It’s not about being unworthy or undeserving,” he chokes out to her because he’s heard her spiel about it a thousand times, “This is me being a good man to you.”

 

“Okay,” she whispers, her eyes hinting with distrust and suspicion, “But this is still your home. Always will be, Dean Winchester.”

 

**June 30, 2007**

**12:00 pm**

It’s utter chaos with a bunch of kids running and bouncing around the backyard of the house.

 

Lisa’s crouched down, the heels of her feet off the ground, her right hand sweeping through their son’s hair, telling him something sweet. All the stress he’s caused has receded from her as she’s shining radiantly again, so beautiful and enchanting again. Her lips press into their son’s forehead, right at his hairline, lingering there and she pours out all her love there in that moment.

 

If there were angels, she had to be one. Well, maybe not. If they did exist, they were fucking dicks to leave the world to be as tarnished and fucked up as it was. She was as close as this world got to something angelic.

 

He twists away because what may have been, should never be.

 

The familiar taste of beer hits his tongue as his lip rests against the bottle.

 

He shouldn’t have answered that phone call that night.

 

He swallows it down, greedily, chasing away the regret.

 

_What’s dead should stay dead._

By the time he’s forced down the contents of the bottle, there’s a gentle touch to his shoulder, her hand settling there as she slides into his ribcage, her arm against his back as she leans into him. “You remember bringing him home from the hospital,” she rasps out, “Before we know it, he’ll be graduating high school.”

 

His hand snakes around her hip and his fingertips dig into her side. It doesn’t match the tilt of his lips as he jokes, “Hopefully, he’s not a Ferris Bueller.”

 

From the corner of her eye, she risks a glance up to his face, past the stubble of his jaw, noticing how he’s staring endlessly off even if his eyes are crinkling with mirth at his joke. Something in her heart slithers in discomfort.

 

He peeks down at her, boyish smirk suddenly there. “I’m expecting a band at some point. You think he’s going to be more Bonham, Page or Plant?”

 

She glances to their son and her brows draw together in concentration. “Page,” she affirms.

 

The smirk dissolves into something that’s almost wistful. “I want them to practice in our garage.”

 

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

**December 31, 2006**

**9:00 pm**

“Bobby, you good?”

 

The older of the three glances to the youngest, still as gruff as he had been all day and last night, but his shoulders are hunkering down with some burden he hasn’t shared. He’s spent the day drinking, knocking back beer after beer and some harder liquor. He hasn’t acknowledged that he’s heard the youngest Winchester, still unseeingly looking out over the salvage yard.

 

“Bobby?” Sam’s hand moves to his paternal figure’s shoulder, concerned.

 

“Idjit, I’m trying to enjoy my Walker,” all gravelly and prickly.

 

The oldest Winchester shifts somewhat, uneasy and cagey.

 

_He spits out the demand again. “Dean, what did you do?” He’s nearly rattling the kid._

_He unfurls his tongue to lie._

_“Dammit, son,” Bobby grinds out, “Tell me the truth.”_

_He never says the words, but he knows Bobby knows._

_“You fucking idjit.”_

Bobby heaves out a frustrated sigh. “Forget John,” he implores the two of them, “Sam, go back to Stanford,” and his voice hardens with a sternness that reminds them of their father, “The dead are dead.” He takes a large gulp at that. “Dean, you got a boy,” and there’s something bitter in the way he says it, “Be there.”

 

“Bobby,” Dean begins to interject, warning to caution him from saying something he shouldn’t be implying to his brother.

 

At the same time, Sam says the man’s name, interjecting about the duty to be at his brother’s side, to save people.

 

“Don’t,” Bobby snaps out, his eyes darting to the older Winchester.

 

Sam’s mouth closes at the veiled hostility in that one word, hearing the resentment buried between the sounds. He frowns when he sees that Bobby’s on the verge of crying. His eyes whip between his brother and father-figure, trying to understand the underlying tension.

 

“You only have so much time with him,” Bobby’s words are softer but ever sharp, still looking at Dean, but the resentment is gone, grief lodged there instead.

 

**Maple Springs, New York**

**August 1, 2007**

**10:00 am**

He should be shoveling the breakfast burrito into his mouth, inhaling it. But he’s picking at the aluminum foil and letting it go cold.

 

So much time has already flown past.

 

“Sam, why haven’t you even considered going back to Stanford?”

 

Sam ignores the question. “So get this—”

 

“Sammy,” he gruffly forces out between his teeth. “Dad’s spent twenty years chasing after the thing that killed mom. I don’t want you to waste any more time. You’re supposed to be moving onto law school by now.”

 

“Long as you’re hunting, I’m hunting.”

 

_Well, shit._

 

Sam smirks roguishly, “How you like them apples?”

 

The smile is involuntary. “Long as I’m Bourne and you’re Gigli guy.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

All settles comfortably, for now, Sam rattles off about the facts of the case they’re investigating and Dean’s teeth tear into the corner of his burrito, listening vaguely to his brother.

 

When all is said and done, Sam can be led towards Jess again, if she’s still available, right whatever wrongs there were, marry her like he always seemed to want, have two kids, the white-picket fence, maybe go to law school or find something else. All the things that should have been, according to Dean.

 

**Cicero, Indiana**

**April 30, 2016**

**10:05 pm**

His feet are sliding into his boots by the front door, the television still on, Sammy and Benny dead to the world, silently trying to slip away from the home he’s built with Lisa.

 

Her neck cranes up from the couch where she’s still sitting, watching him through her hazy sleepiness. She almost looks drunk, reminiscent of that girl he met all those years ago—achingly beautiful and so far from his depravity.

 

She’d ask what time it was if she wasn’t so disoriented and groggy. Then, she’d ask where he was going.

 

Contritely, he wanders back over to her, one boot on his foot, and his fingertips dance from temple to her cheek, tantalizingly slow. “We should have dug out the Guns vinyl,” he speaks softly. He leans down to press his lips against her mouth, all slow-burning and tender.

 

She pulls away first. Her mind is reeling but she’s slowly dragging herself to ask him all the things she should have asked when she saw him at the door. “Dean—”

 

He interrupts, “I have to go,” insisting it with his brows crumpled. “But all three of you should meet me at Bobby’s for Sam’s birthday.”

 

She nods gently.

 

His eyes flick down to her mouth again, famished and agonized.

 

She leans closer, melding her mouth against his.

 

It’s punishing and it only stops when his teeth bite down on her lip, drawing blood.

 

Her finger runs along the wound when she retracts from him. The moment of pain stops when she sees that an errant tear is trailing down the slope of his cheek as he twists away from her, moving back to the door and his forgotten boot.

 

As he’s slipping through the front door into the night, she still hasn’t told him goodbye, her stomach rolling in waves at whatever just happened. He halts before he’s completely gone and he cranes back ever so slightly to see her. “Sam may hate me for his birthday, but he has to open my gift,” the words raw and vulnerable, timid and meek. Then he pulls the door knob, gone to the three of them.


	6. Stairway to Heaven

 

**DARK SIDE OF THE MOON**

_Whatever you do, you will always end up here. No matter the choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here._

**Chapter 6: Stairway to Heaven**

_**There's a feeling I get when I look to the west** _

_**And my spirit is crying for leaving…** _

_**Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run** _

_**There's still time to change the road you're on** _

**Cicero, Indiana**

**April 6, 2008**

**11:00 am**

Fingers meshed through the chain-link fence, Sam Winchester is smashing his face against it as he leans closer to his older brother and nephew. He's been told off by the umpire for coaching on the sidelines, but he's still mouthing words of encouragement to his nephew when he glances back to him.

Dean's one of the few coaches on the team, crouched down near Ben, bat in hand, off to the side of the dug-out, baseball cap on backwards, kindly instructing his son on his swing. His jawline is scruffy with a beard, forgoing keeping it to a stubble since he's been home for the season, hunting delayed for now, just an old pair of jeans that are tearing at the knee, a fading t-shirt from Stanford and white sneakers.

"Alright, dad," Ben mumbles, nodding along to the advice he's been given.

A smile graces Dean's face before he stands, crossing his arms over his chest as his son steps aside to practice his swing.

A warm hand settles onto her knee. "He's so good with your son," one of the mother's comments to Lisa, soft appreciative smile on her face as she says it.

"He's amazing," she corrects the woman, her mind wandering to all the years he's been there for Ben, from the younger days when he stayed up far into the night, cradling a shrieking baby, and to the days of running alongside the bicycle, always ready to catch him if the bike started to wobble, or to sixth sense he's always seemed to have when their son has been in pain or distress.

As Ben is stepping up to the plate, Matt, her boyfriend, settles into her side, pretzel proffered to her, but she's distracted, clapping and hooting for her son, joining in with Sam's whistle of encouragement and Dean's rumble of prideful adulation.

When the game is over, she's happily leaning into her boyfriend as they approach the imposing figure of Sam Winchester, high-fiving her son as he's perched up on Dean's shoulders, the large baseball cap tilting off his head instead of his father, and Dean's performing his own rendition of Queen. She can't help the brilliant smile from nearly splitting her chin from her face at the happiness exuding from her little family.

"Mom, you going to come with us to grab pizza?"

She glances to Dean, he's all boyish smirk and charm.

Dean Winchester like this is a sin, just as much as he's divine—stunningly beautiful so much so that it is breathtakingly so. It really should be illegal to be both a highway to hell and a stairway to heaven.

"Cheesy pepperoni," Dean mutters to their son, tugging at his ankle, but his eyes are playfully coaxing her, "from that corner shop we always go to."

"Mom, you have to."

"It's tradition," Dean quips.

It's more than tradition. It's a place that's anchored the two of them, and then three of them, through everything, where she and Dean first sat down face-to-face with a little print-out of a baby years ago, there's been countless end of the season parties there when their son was younger, and it's still just a booth where she slid into after meeting this guy in a bar around the corner before they slipped away to his backseat first and then to her apartment on the other side of town, conceiving a little boy somewhere thereafter pizza.

"Alright, alright," she concedes.

**1:10 pm**

She nearly recoils at the warmth of his fingers against her wrist.

"Wait, I need to talk to you about something privately."

A quick glance indicates that Matt's attention is wrapped around her son at some arcade game and Sam Winchester is engrossed with the duo as well. She moves away from him with how close he's leaning into her, invading her space so much so that she can almost hear his heartbeat.

His fingers disappear from her skin. "Step outside with me for a second."

This whole thing reeks of feeling like she's dangling on some precipice. She's still inevitably drawn to him and there are days where she swears he's flirting with the fall and then there are days where he's the one pushing her over alone. She really should have asked him to move out of the house because with Matt, everything between them seems more convoluted then it should be.

"Why don't we stay here," she murmurs, finding solace in the booth, her eyes flicking to his face which is crinkled with distaste. "Nobody is paying us any mind here," she softly speaks.

His jaw clenches tightly as his finger absently swipes up the glass of beer sitting before him, his fingertip wet with condensation.

Her belly tightens because years ago she thought he'd been beautiful with that roguish charm and now, this brooding quietness is devastating. It isn't helping that she's had a beer or two.

"Matt's a good guy," he admits, his eyes on his beer, hands restless. "Good for you and Benny."

Her stomach is twisting because this isn't anything to what she would have imagined he would have tried. She'd been expecting some breathless kiss against his car if he'd convinced her to step outside or some dizzying confession that he'd been wrong, or that he could make it work because these past few weeks, it's been exactly that.

"He's trying to be careful with his role in Ben's life. Doesn't want to overstep but doesn't want to be neglectful."

There's a hint of a smile, but no comment from him.

"The baseball season isn't over yet." She says it because it feels like he's already leaving like this is some goodbye. She isn't sure if she's indirectly asking if he's staying and wanting to ask that he does, or if she's just trying to figure out what he's doing because him living at home for this long is giving her a taste of what they've had before and she's torn if she wants it all again with him or if she should be pushing him out the door because she can't.

His fingers reach out to her hand, gently settling over it. "I'm finishing the season as his coach. There's only so many years I can coach him." Their eyes are locked together and he's got a tilt to his lips as he promises this. "But I know that we can't keep this situation up in the long run. I have to go."

Her mouth is quick to open, but the words don't make it out.

"Lis," he interrupts, "I'm not a baseball coach," little mischievous shadow to his words, "I've got the family business. Doesn't mean I won't need a break from pest control."

She's almost glad that he interrupted her because she doesn't know what would have come out of her mouth. Yet, there's still an endless stream of questions about and if she had said something, maybe there'd be fewer circling in her head right now.

He glances at her boyfriend, the man that may one day call the home he started with her his own, take a drawer over and then half the closet, his car in the garage, his beer in the fridge, and he can't help the jealousy simmering beneath his skin at the possibility. Even more, he can't suffocate the bitterness festering in his bones. But it's all confusing because even with the envy, there's the loosening of a knot in his gut that he'd be there for her and for his kid when he couldn't be, when he can't be. There's not much he knows about Matthew Washington, except that he's bonded with Ben over sports, having lettered every year of high school and gone to college down south to play, and that the guy's a doctor. He doesn't know anything about the supernatural and it's better that way because it should end with him and Sam.

She follows his eyes to the back of her boyfriend and at first, she doesn't recognize the scowl on his face because Dean Winchester has never been that kind of boyfriend with her. Before she can even truly acknowledge it, his features have abated into something almost peaceful. Something disturbing causes him to avert his eyes away quickly and he's grimacing, fingers wrapping around his glass and dragging his beer towards him. She frowns at the change.

"If you marry him, I don't want Ben to call him Dad." His lips touch the rim of his glass, beer on his tongue shortly after.

"No one's going to take that from you." He still hasn't pulled his beer away from his mouth, swallowing gulp after gulp. "Ben couldn't hold anyone else in higher regards than you because you're his dad and hero."

The glass clinks down on the table loudly.

There's something Dean isn't saying, but it's right there on the tip of his tongue.

An arm wrapped around the boy's midsection, Sam is coming back towards the table, carrying a squirming and laughing kid, not noting the tense shoulders of his brother or the way Lisa is anxiously sitting there beside him. "They're almost the same type of army men that I jammed in the backseat of your dad's car," Sam's answering some question neither of the two at the booth has heard, "Some of them come with parachutes."

"Sammy, did you forget what a piggyback is?"

Whatever he would have said is lost, stolen away from her by the intrusion.

Benny is shaking some plastic ball from one of those coin machines in his hand as his uncle swings him upright on his two feet, blinding smile across his face with his two front teeth missing and his tongue poking out as he's laughing. "Look, dad," tumbling out of his mouth as he crowds his father in the booth.

"Sammy telling you about the bottle rockets we used to make with these little guys?"

The eyes of wonder are something she knows she's going to regret.

"Not as bad as that Fourth of July when we burned down the field," Sam mutters at the look of dread on her face, imagining a little pyromaniac. "Completely unrelated."

"And your fault," Dean tacks on.

Sam looks highly amused, not completely agreeing with his brother but he doesn't vocalize that it was both their irresponsibility that burnt down the field.

Ben is buzzing with the glimpses of stories he'll be told when she's not here.

Dean shifts an arm behind his son and brother, whose slid into the seat earlier. "You know your grandfather served," he mentions, "He didn't talk about the Marines, but I used to like to make up missions he went on. Stuff like having him do dive missions in motel pools or parachuting down from some chopper," he's rambling, lost in the past when he hadn't quite known what a soldier was. "Used to say a lot of things about what I'd be when I grew up. Soldier was one of them. I almost joined years later."

She should ask Dean to stay because the way their son looks at him, with all that love and adoration and hero worship, is so much more than their son has ever looked at anyone else in his life.

"You did?"

Her eyes shift to Sam. He's sitting there, listening aptly to his brother with this sense of seeing something for the first time.

"I talked to a recruiter in high school one time. Thought it'd have been good to follow dad's footsteps for a little bit before you know," he clears his throat, leaving the two adults to fill in the gap, "But you were a kid then and someone had to be there for you." He shrugs as if it's nothing.

"You would've been in by the time 9/11 happened," she chokes out, picturing him boots down in the desert, not even comprehending that if he had joined, there'd be no Ben, just horror-struck that he would have been there with the gunfire and IEDs. He would have extended soon as he saw the Towers get hit and he might have been one of those boxes that came back home.

Again he shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

His brother is still reeling from the revelation.

"Dad, will you show me all the missions," his little voice faint, but pregnant with awe.

"Yeah, buddy. We can start with deploying the little guy with some diving in the inflatable pool once we get home."

**9:00 pm**

His feet are dangling over the edge of the mattress he's sharing with his son, his shoulders filling out most of the space in the small bedroom, trying to squeeze himself smaller for the sake of his son that's squashed against him, trying to not fall off.

The bedroom is a chaotic mess of everything he assumes his and Sam's room would have been had they shared a bedroom as kids.

Stuck up on the ceiling are these glow-in-the-dark stars and planets, something his brother bought for Ben years ago after a camping trip they had all taken when Sam had still been in high school. All the books Sam flipped through a dozen times over in whatever library they'd been in at the time, copies have trickled into his son's room, crowding the bookshelves he's installed over the years to accommodate the weight of each, thickening novels every year, moving from Dr. Seuss to chapter books, Harry Potter, and the likes. But the posters tacked on the walls are all Dean, AC/DC and Zeppelin, all the greats plastered every goddamn where. There's no collection of cassette tapes yet or albums, but it's coming soon, along with some stereo system and whatever music he discovers on his own blasting. Peeking out of the closet is the guitar, the newest addition to the room, not electric because none of them are prepared for the racket until at least he knows how to strum something, hence the lessons he's started.

He can already see all the things that will change over the years. Eventually, they'll be posters of bikini babes and probably alcohol names along with those posters, and they'll be some stash of Busty Asian Beauties under the bed. Once the kid hits his growth spurt, they're going to need a larger bed and he's sure that these sheets will have to grow up a bit by then, something darker than this striped blue and green. He can already imagine the headphones lying everywhere and the dirty laundry and the empty energy drinks and sodas. Probably, those stars and planets will come down too.

"Dad, you asleep?"

He hums, still thinking about the fact that one day, this room will be empty, just like Sam's had been when he first left for Stanford. No more Pearl Jam or Nirvana spilling out from his brother's room.

"You think we can build a treehouse?"

"Alright, Tarzan," he drawls, voice thick with remorse. He twists his neck to press a kiss to his son's temple. "I'll let you hammer some nails even if your mom might kill me. Just promise me that you won't take down these," and he's pointing up to the stars and planets. "Ever," he emphasizes.

It seems so silly to ask, but Ben isn't tall enough to even consider pulling them down. "Okay, I promise."

But it matters to Dean because he's the one that craned his neck back uncomfortably to stick the damn things up there instead of buying a night light for the kid. And he's the one that every night before he flicks off the light of this bedroom, tells his son that doesn't matter where in the world he is, but that they've both got a night sky to look up at. It's his modified mom's  _angels are watching you_  thing. Figured the moon and it being the size of your thumb trick was more comforting and less bullshit than angels.

"We'll go to the hardware store in the morning."

He's got no idea how he's going to find the time to build a treehouse, but he'll stay up all night sawing boards if he has to because he's got to build this thing because he isn't leaving without it done.

"Love you, dad." It's sleepy and soft, breathed out against him as his son burrows into him.

He holds onto these, clings to these moments, knowing that if he had just left, gone back to hunting and broke cleanly from Ben, he'd have been haunted by the possibilities of having known his son for the time he had. Not knowing if he ever hit that home run, or if he played guitar, or what he was doing at school, would have eaten at him until it was easier to pretend he didn't exist.

Croaked out, "Love you too."


End file.
